


Heat Wave

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Popsicles, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 17:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: It's too damn hot. You decide to surprise Rick in his garage with some sexy times. Maybe that'll cool things off?





	Heat Wave

It is a kiln outside, and inside, and everywhere.

Politicians denying it or not, this heat wave had to be due to global warming. 

The air conditioner helps, but Rick likes it in the garage. Sometimes he rigs something up to make it arctic in there, but the heat from the sun and pavement push back and even he has to give up making it cool. The energy it requires makes his other projects suffer.

Taking a gulp of cool air to help shield you from the blast furnace you know is waiting, you open the door from the kitchen to the garage. You’re immediately soaked in sweat.

Rick is hunched over his workbench. He’s shed his customary lab coat and shirt, and he’s slicked with sweat too. His pants stick to him like a second skin. Even his hair is wilting.

You walk over, sweat making your thighs run together uncomfortably. 

“You’re going to get dehydrated,” you tell him, and set a glass of ice water next to him.

“Don’t put that there!” he barks.

You pick it up again and hold it, waiting.

He continues to fiddle with whatever piece of electrical board and wiring has his attention for a minute, then he finally looks up like he’s noticed you’re there for the first time.

“Hey-hey, you read my mind!” he tells you appreciatively, accepting the glass.

It is so damn hot out here, but watching his throat work as he swallows the liquid is surprisingly erotic. 

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come back inside and heat up in a different way?” you ask coyly. “Maybe . . . slip into the shower together and soap each other up?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I gotta—these aren’t going to-to spot weld themselves."

With the dismissal, he turns back to his wires. 

You pick up the glass—he had set it down on the table where you had been told not to previously—and head back to the kitchen. You throw a glance over your shoulder at him, and he’s stooped over again, muttering something. Beads of sweat have formed lines of sweat down his slender back, and the bony processes of his spine are visible. 

This heat should make you logy, but instead, seeing Rick like that has made you horny. 

He’s absorbed in his project, though. Would barely give you the time of day. What to do?

He liked the ice water . . . a thought pops into your head, and you slip back into the kitchen again. The cool conditioned air seems even colder as sweat evaporates off you, but you ignore the goosebumps and the fact and going in and out of the heat is going to make you look a sweaty, ratty mess, and open the freezer.

Aha!

You grab your prize, peel off the waxy paper wrapper, and stick the cherry popsicle into your mouth.

After letting it melt in your mouth for a moment, you brave the solid wall of heat in the garage again.

Then you realize the garage door is open.

Are you going to dare do this on wide display of the neighborhood? Rick would, no doubt, but do you have the guts for it?

You also realize that nobody is going to be out walking their dogs or having their kids play in the yard while the sun was blazing down, so the chances of somebody seeing you are slim.

With that self-reassurance, you walk up next to Rick again.

“Wh-what now?” he mutters, watching himself work.

“You _sure_ you don’t want to take a break?”

_“Jesus!_ Yes, goddamn it, I’m _sure—“_ he says, annoyed, then manages to look at you and stops talking.

You know your lips are already stained from the red dye #3, and that popsicle had no chance of lasting in this heat. It’s already down to a third of its original size, and you didn’t try incredibly hard to keep all of the melted liquid in your mouth. You lick your lips with an equally stained tongue and watch him watch your mouth.

“You’re so hot and sweaty out here,” you tell him coquettishly. “Maybe I should help cool you down, at least a little.”

You punctuate your words by sucking on the pop.

“Jesus—“ he repeats, but in a much different tone.

“You’re so sweaty. Might feel good to get out of those long pants.”

Not waiting for a positive or negative reply, you hold the frozen treat in your mouth and use both hands to swing him toward you on his stool. You make quick work of his belt and fly, and squeeze the bulge in his underwear.

You take a second to hold the wooden stick of the popsicle and roll your tongue around it, and Rick doesn’t need any additional help to shed his pants and briefs.

Perched on the edge of his stool, he doesn’t say a word as you start to crouch down between his legs. Before you can do anything, however, he takes your shoulder. 

“Take off-take off your shirt,” he semi-asks, “and bra. I wanna s-see your tits.”

For a second, the open garage door looms behind you, but Rick’s already nude except his socks and maybe being naked from the waist up would help cool you down too.

You comply. Sweat makes it difficult to maneuver your shirt over your head and you were dumb enough to wear a sports bra today, so you decide to take them both off together. You didn’t account for the popsicle stick, though, and it gets caught in the elastic of your bra and pulled out of your mouth. 

Automatic reflexes allow you to catch it before it hits the dirty garage floor, but it smears in the canyon between both and on one boob before you grab it. It leaves a sticky red trail on your skin.

Rick murmurs appreciatively. “N-n-nice,” and where he was slightly turned on before, now he has an erection. 

You steady yourself a moment, on display before him. Rick dips his fingers along the red track on your chest and lifts his hand to his mouth. He licks the sugar off his fingertips indecently— parroting what you’d done with the popsicle—and while you’re transfixed with the vision of him sucking his fingers he smiles down at you.

“W-well?” he asks. 

He waves his other hand in a flourish at his own body.

You smirk because he thinks he’s in charge, and drop your mouth to his cock.

There was no teasing, no easing into this blow job. You dive in and deep throat him in one fell swoop, pushing passed your gag reflex as the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. The taste of sweat tries to compete with the sweet already pooled in your mouth.

“H-holy shit!” Rick exclaims, bucking enough to tip the stool dangerously. He scrabbles at the edge of his work bench to keep his balance. “Holy _shit!”_

Your mouth is cold from the ice. The surprise of it encasing his cock was exactly what you wanted.

You don’t give his cock a chance to sag from the unexpected temperature. You suck him in earnest, moving from tip to burying your nose in his pubic hair. Typically pale, when you glance at it you can see it is taking on a distinct pinkish-red tint. That red dye #3 stains everything.

Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s being exposed to the street with the garage door wide open. Maybe it’s just that Rick’s grunting and gasping and you like blowing him, but whatever the reason you keep up a blistering pace, barely giving yourself a moment to take a proper breath. The chill in your mouth is gone now, but there’s still the stickiness from the sugar, and sweet won the war against sweat.

You dip back in, swirling your tongue as you move, and Rick grabs the side of your face to yank you off him. A thin line of stringy, sugary saliva tethers your lower lip to his cock.

He’s panting in little huffs and hasn’t bothered to wipe the drool that’s accumulated on his chin away.

“You need-you gotta slow down, baby,” he tells you in a thready voice. “I’m gonna come—“

Like those were the magic words, you twist your head out of his grasp and engulf him again. You don’t break eye contact with him this time though, and even though he’s gripping the edge of the bench with white knuckles and looks like he wants to tell you to stop again, you don’t.

You suck his cock and roll your tongue around it continually, and he can’t last any longer. His free hand finds your hair and tangles it in. With a barely muffled howl, Rick’s whole body tenses. He jerks involuntarily on the stool and comes in your mouth. This thick saltiness finally does tip the tide and triumphs over the sugar. His cock pulses in your mouth but you let him take the time he needs.

Finally, with a drawn-out groan, Rick relaxes. As his body loosens, his cock eases slickly out of your mouth, you sit back on your heels, still crouched in front of him.

The area is a mess. The last of the popsicle melted, forgotten, over your hand. With the fast pace you’d set, excess sugary saliva had dripped onto the floor of the garage between his legs. Speaking of which, a thin coat of pinkish-red had glazed his pubic area and onto the tops of his thighs. It had flowed to the stool too.

You wipe the back of your hand over your mouth. The stickiness of it was a good indication of what Rick’s crotch was going to feel like.

“Holy shit, baby,” he finally says, when he has found his voice. 

“Yeah!” you grin up at him. Looking at the state of him, you could only imagine what your lower face looked like: sticky, sweaty, red.

“Guess I’m gonna have to—looks like you got your wish. Let’s go, let’s go take a shower.”

He doesn’t seem too upset by it. 

He helps you up. You grab your shirt and start to pick up his pants, but he nixes it by saying,

“With the amount of sugar on my junk, there’s no way, no way I’m getting those back on! Come on, we’ll just-just go through the house—“

“Naked?!” you protest.

“Yeah. Naked,” he replies drily, and doesn’t wait for any further objection. “Come on. We’re gonna get swarmed by ants if we st-stay out h-here any longer!”

He leads you by the hand to the door, then pauses.

“Hey,” he starts, then stops.

Thank yous are not Rick’s forte, so you understand the hesitation.

“I just wanna say . . .”

You wait patiently.

“. . . that-that . . .”

It’s nice to be appreciated.

“. . . I mean . . .”

Any time now, Rick.

He takes a breath and blurts out, “I mean, it’s cold inside, because of the air conditioning? And that means there’s-there’s gonna be—my junk is going to have some shrinkage, you know? So I’m glad, I’m glad you know it’s not like that n-n-normally.”

You stare at him for a moment. It’s never easy to tell when he’s joking and this time is no different. He seems oblivious that you don’t know how to take what he just said.

“Shit, you’re sexy,” he says. He squeezes your hand. “That popsicle thing was a good-good idea. I’d like to, like to do that to you sometime. But let’s get soapy-soaped up in the shower right now and see where—see what might happen then, okay?”

You smirk and agree it’s a good idea, and brace yourself to walk through the house nude, sweaty, partially covered in melted popsicle, with Rick. 

_fin._


End file.
